"'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark,
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw
Near home;
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye
Will mark our coming, and look brighter
When we come."
We reached home in mid-winter, and found a scene of indescribable
desolation, the fire having devastated so many familiar spots in the
city's approach; depots in ashes and entire streets a wide waste. Finding
no one to meet us, with the longed-for, loving welcome, we were tortured
with fear, and went at once to Mr. Arms' place of business, where we
learned that he was at home and sick. Thither we hurriedly wended our way,
and, although we found the invalid unable to leave his bed, we thought it
sweet to find ourselves in this our _first_ home, which, having been
reared in my absence, seemed like a magic castle bridging over the sad
separation.
My husband soon convalesced and we began to lay plans for furnishing our
new abode. I still suffered from a cold upon my lungs contracted from the
long exposure on the plains, and it fell to the lot of Hattie to assist
Mr. Arms in the selection of our household goods. She had become eyes and
hands for me, and I never so fully realized how the touch of sympathy
could blend _two_ tastes in _one_, for every article met my entire
approval. I will not dwell upon the joys of our new home; but well has the
poet said--
"Each man's chimney is his golden mile stone,
Is the central point from which
He measures every distance
Through the gateway of the world
Around him.
"We may build more splendid habitations,
Fill our rooms with paintings
And with sculpture;
But we cannot buy with gold
The old association."
In every Paradise since the first Eden the inevitable trail of the serpent
has been over all, and too often it comes in its halcyon hours.
Insidiously and surely came the stealthy trail of our serpent in the
declining health of my husband, and the impending danger to the dear life
of Hattie.
I took her to every physician who made her disease a specialty, going far
and near to consult them, each one of whom would shake their heads in
despair, yet all seeming willing to undertake her case. But to me she was
too precious to be submitted to experimental treatment. Finally the fame
of Dr. Kingsley reached us. He was known as the Great American Cancer
Doctor, and we went at once to his cure, in Rome, New York.
The same ominous shade came with his examination, and he too failed to
promise a cure. Passing through the wards of his hospitals, with their
agonizing and appalling scenes, the shrieks of pain ringing like
death-knells in our ears, decided us, neither of us being willing she
should submit to a fate so fraught with fearful contingencies.
We were stopping with a family named Crawford, who were friends of Hattie,
and whose unremitting kindness will be a life-long memory.
We returned to them in deep despair, when we heard of Mr. Golly, a
neighboring farmer, who was performing almost miraculous cures, and we at
once took the stage and went to him.
A few moments conversation inspired us with confidence in the man, whose
frank face was an index to his character, and whose sympathetic soul
breathed through every intonation of his gentle voice.
He advised her to remain for treatment, assuring her, that if she was
unable to pay, it would cost her nothing.
We were willing to remunerate if certain of cure, and, knowing the dread
uncertainty of the case, this noble man revealed in his offer his true
magnanimity. I remained with her two months, when home demands became
imperative, and I longingly left one who, through nine years of _close_
and _dear_ relationship had become a life link hard to sever.
With undying gratitude to good Mr. Golly, I left her confided to his
fatherly care, knowing he could not prove recreant to the trust.